They sat and watched the headwaiter, Stefan, work his magic with egg yolks, olive oil, and anchovies, whipped with a wooden spoon, tossed with romaine lettuce and croutons and dished out as Caesar salad. Then they began to munch.
“I love this,” Vanessa said.
“So do I.”
“So where has the lovely young lady from last evening gone?” she asked.
“She comes, she goes, on her own whim or that of others,” he replied. “She doesn’t ask my permission or offer explanations. Where has your mother gone?”
“At this moment, she has a dinner date with one of her fellas.”
“You make them sound like a herd.”
“They practically are. She doesn’t have many nights off.”
“I take it your father is not around.”
“She kicked him out years ago. He lives on the proceeds of his share of the bakeries.”
“I enjoyed Betty’s company last night, though it deprived me of yours.”
“Well, we’re making up for that now, aren’t we?”
They had finished their salads by the time their Dover sole arrived and was boned and served, along with a firm, crisp Puligny-Montrachet.
“How did you come to be at the party last night?” Stone asked her.
“Betty invited me to be her date,” Vanessa replied.
“Then how did Betty come to be there?”
“Peter invited her and a date. Everybody else was busy, I guess.”
“And how did Betty become acquainted with Peter?”
“She knew him as a younger man, when he lived in New York.”
“What did Peter do with himself in those days?”
“The same thing he does now.”
“Which is?”
“Nobody seems to know, certainly not Betty. If a man is handsome and a little bright, that’s all she needs to know.” She took a swig of her wine and smiled her approval. “I’m more demanding,” she said.
“Then once again, I’m flattered.”
“I knew you were going to be smart when I saw you across the room,” she said. “That’s why I moved my place card next to yours.”
“What made you think I’d be smart?”
“It was the way you were talking to that very strange Russian,” she said. “You appeared . . . skeptical.”
“Oh, I am very skeptical of Comrade Chekhov,” Stone replied.
“He, on the other hand, seems attracted to you.”
“I think I can explain that,” Stone said.
“Please do, unless you’re going to tell me you’re gay.”
“No. Not very long ago I helped Mr. Chekhov make a great deal of money. Not directly. He invested in a company I owned, and there was an IPO. You know what that is.”
“An initial public offering. Of course I know. I had one of my own two years ago.”
“Congratulations. What Chekhov wants from me is a tip or two on another stock, and I have denied him that—and Chekhov is unaccustomed to being denied.”
“I’m relieved to hear that it’s not your body we’re talking about.”
“I believe I answered that question. Do you wish further proof?”
“Well, not in this restaurant,” she replied. “Perhaps later?”
“I’ll do what I can.”
She laughed. “And how did you meet Mr. Chekhov?”
“At one of Peter’s dinner parties in Paris.”
“Were you there recently?”
“A few days ago.”
“I wish I had been there.”
“So do I. Perhaps one day soon I’ll invite you to go.”
“I’ll look forward to it. What brought you back?”
“Well, occasionally, I have to appear to practice law. My firm expects it.”
“Which firm?”
“Woodman & Weld.”
“Was Bill Eggers the man who gave you a job when you stopped being a policeman?”
“He was. We were classmates in law school.”
“They did the legal work on my IPO.”
“How’s your stock doing?”
“It’s trebled since the day we rang the bell downtown.”
“Congratulations again.”
“This fish is marvelous,” she said, taking another bite. “Is Peter Grant mixed up in something illegal?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I googled Mr. Chekhov when I got home last night, and the results were not edifying.”
“Peter seemed to arrange things for his pleasure in Paris, and now in New York.”
“Do you mean he’s pimping for Chekhov?”
“Possibly. Or perhaps he just invites him to dinners where there are women, then lets him fend for himself. I don’t think that’s illegal.”
“Do you think Chekhov is doing something illegal?”
“I expect so. Russian oligarchs don’t get to be oligarchs any other way.”
“Do you know what it is that he does?”
“Anything that involves money, to hear him tell it.”
“And you’ve heard him tell it?”
“In small doses. Peter arranged a lunch at the Russian embassy, so that Chekhov could poke around for tips. I found him distasteful then, and nothing has changed since.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Vanessa said. “I was afraid you might be involved with him in some way. But now that we’ve established that you are not, will you invite me to your home for a nightcap? I want to see where you live.”
“Certainly,” Stone said, lifting a finger for the check.
The rain had stopped by the time they got to Turtle Bay, and they were able to enter through the front door instead of the garage.
Stone pressed the master light switch as they entered, and the living room lights came on.
“Very nice,” she said, “and I’ll bet you decorated it yourself.”
“I did.”
“It’s very masculine, but comfortable.”
“The bar is in my study, to your right.” Stone led her in, lit the fire, and poured them each a cognac. She sat down in the middle of the sofa and patted the cushion next to her.
Stone sat. “I believe I offered you further proof of my sexuality,” he said.
“I don’t need proof,” Vanessa said, “but don’t let that stop you.”